council of your ruler, as well as a moment with another who is rumored to be amongst you, a warrior named Arrin Urrael.”
The soldiers cast uncertain glances back and forth amongst their number, each shaking their head in turn, until one of the men stepped forward. He stared at Zalee a moment longer and then sheathed his sword, the soldiers behind following his lead. Relief flooded their faces. He bowed short.
“Come with us.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Arrin stood quiet behind the rigid backs of Maltis and Barold, the Pathra siblings and their entourage at his side. He listened as a soldier passed a breathless message to the prince. The words out in a jumbled rush, Arrin felt the weight of every eye upon him. The smile that had been shorn from the prince’s face in the wake of the bombardment once more returned to its former glory. Its malice was plain for all to see.
“While it pains me to admit your wild tale has been proven true, exile, it would seem you play a far greater role in the Grol coming here than you would have us believe. You led them to us.”
Arrin felt a cold chill settle over him at the prince’s words. Though everyone in the hall had heard what the messenger had said, Olenn had twisted the words like a serpent-tongued, master bard. The message unexpected, Arrin could only stare, his own tongue too tied to come to his defense. His eyes drifted to Malya to see disappointment lurking in their emerald depths. Its weight was like the lid of a casket, sealing him in darkness.
Olenn followed his gaze. “Do you see, my sister? He has brought nothing but grief to your life and now he brings ruin down upon our people.” He spun and pointed at Arrin. “He is far worse than just an exile that escaped justice upon the gallows, he is a traitor.”
The words struck him as though they were a physical blow. Arrin stood in rigid disbelief, his hand shifting to the hilt of his blade without thought. The prince’s guard drew steel at his movement and crowded closer, their voices raised in anger. Malya was pushed aside by the mass of warriors as they closed, a handful of men at the rear keeping her from fighting her way through.
Only the dark-glared defiance of Maltis and Barold kept the men from attacking Arrin, despite the insistence from Lord Xilth who crowed from behind their armored ranks. Kirah set her hand upon Arrin’s arm, gentle reassurance in her touch.
Olenn called for silence. “The Grol offer us renewed peace in exchange for the exile and I see no reason to deny their request.”
“You cannot believe the Grol,” Arrin shouted, his tongue coming loose at last. Kirah’s grip tightened and he was glad for the restraint.
“But we can believe an exile that would conspire to steal the throne?”
Arrin felt his anger at his cheeks, the collar growing warm about his neck. “I never-” he started.
“You never bed the princess? Never hid your affair from the crown? Got her with child?” Olenn grinned, baring his teeth. “If only to yourself, admit that you intended to claim my sister as your patron and use her influence to remove me from my throne so that you might sit in my place. You are a traitor, Arrin, as surely as if you had dared to stick a blade between my ribs.”
“That is untrue.” Malya practically spit the words at her brother.
He turned his razored smile upon her. “Is it now, sister? And you would have us believe you did not bed the exile and bear him a child?”
Malya’s cheeks reddened, though Arrin could not tell if it was from anger or from shame. “However our relationship appeared to you, brother, it was never one of collusion against my father’s kingdom.”
“Perhaps in your eyes it never was, but I have no faith in a man that would sneak about like a snake to sway a princess into his bed.” He waved Malya off, Lord Xilth coming to stand between her and the prince. “He stands before us an exile, not as a member of our populace. I would gladly be rid of him again, his worthless life gaining a measure of value for his sacrifice for our people.” He turned to his guards. “Take him to this Vorrul. Let the beast decide his fate.”
The prince’s guard inched forward as Maltis and Barold drew their own steel. The Pathran emissaries drew about, uncertain. Malya screamed at her brother for reason, the narrow courtyard walls reflecting the cluster of sounds in a maelstrom that rang in his ears. Arrin tightened his grip upon his blade and willed the collar to life.
A single, scything voice cut through the noise and silenced the room.
All eyes turned to see who had spoken, the anger on their faces washed away in surprise. Hesitant to turn away from the crowd, Arrin gave in and cast his eyes behind him.
Surrounded by Lathahn soldiers, an unkempt boy close alongside, was a being long thought to have been gone from the earthly face of Ahreele. For all his doubt, Arrin could not find it in himself to question what he saw before him. There outside the Great Hall of Lathah stood one of the ancients; a Sha’ree.
The attention of everyone upon her, the Sha’ree spoke. “I am Zalee of Ah Uto Ree. I would have urgent words with the ruler of Lathah.” Her pink gaze swept the courtyard seeming to pause in acknowledgment of Olenn, but her eyes settled on Arrin.
“I am Prince Olenn, honored Zalee. If I might have but a moment to clear the refuse from the yard,” he gestured to Arrin and those gathered around him, “We may speak in peace.”
“I would have them stay.” She drew closer, the way parting before her as she came to stand beside Arrin. The dark-skinned boy was at her heels. Of the Pathra, only Kirah stayed close. Zalee met Olenn’s gaze without fear. “My people seek the bearers of the magical gifts we Sha’ree imparted so long ago.” She motioned to Arrin. “Of which, this warrior is one. If we are to end the war that has descended upon Ahreele, he must come with me.”
Arrin’s thoughts spinning wildly in his head, he looked to the Sha’ree as Olenn blustered.
“I know not your need of the exile, but if we are to have peace in the here and now, I must graciously refuse your request. He is to be given to the Grol in exchange for their withdrawal.”
The Sha’ree shook her head. “This cannot be. The Grol seek only to further assure their dominance by robbing us of yet another piece of our magic that can be used against them. I cannot allow you to surrender this warrior.”
Arrin growled and stamped his foot. “I am owned by neither of you. You do not decide my fate.” He stepped away from the Sha’ree, pulling his arm from Kirah’s grasp. “I have returned to Lathah for no reason other than to find my child and help the people escape to safety ahead of the Grol invasion. Your will and desires be damned, the both of you.”
The Sha’ree looked at him, her pink eyes narrow, but she said nothing. Olenn filled the void with fury.
“You are nothing if I do not allow it, Arrin Urrael,” he screamed as he waved his guard on. “Seize him.” Olenn drew back out of his men’s way.
Lieutenant Santos and the men at the front ranks that had seen Arrin crumple the irons, hesitated for but an instant. It was all Arrin needed. Adrenaline complimented by the magical energy that screamed in his veins, he pulled Maltis and Barold from before him and sent them tumbling back into the Pathra, the whole of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Arrin had his sword in his hand and leapt at the men of the guard before they had even begun to shake off the thrall of uncertainty. For his disrespect of Malya, Arrin went for Santos first. Though he regretted he did not have the time to make the lieutenant suffer, he drew grim satisfaction, however diminished, from knowing the man would die at his hands.
He ducked low and drove his blade beneath the chin of the lieutenant. Its edge bit through the soldier’s throat and slipped deep inside without resistance, the tip breaking through the skull near the top of his head. Arrin met the man’s terrified gaze as he yanked his sword free, Santos’s life draining from his head as quickly as the blood that gushed pungent down his neck and chest.
Arrin delivered a kick to the next closest man, sending him flying backwards into the ranks. The clash of chain and bodies colliding rang out in the courtyard as a number of soldiers went down in a heap.
Fifteen years of sorrow and anger fueled his rampage as he went after the next soldier. A vicious thrust shattered the chain links of the man’s hauberk, the point of the blade bursting his heart. Arrin was gone before the
